


Holy Knights and Shepherd's Pies

by TrickyBunny



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Mild Blood, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23155405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickyBunny/pseuds/TrickyBunny
Summary: A series of vignettes about Lyric Eisner as he figures out life at Garreg Mach Monastery and what the church seems to want with his twin sister, Lore. She is made a professor while he becomes Manuela's assistant.Chaos ensues.Tags/Characters to be updated as I write more. Someday It may even be a whole, cohesive story.Every so often characters belonging to AwakeAt2Am will walk in.
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. Silence

Fódlan had a reputation for being cold. Lyric suspected it was because to the Sreng Desert to the north and the tropical climates of Dagda and Brigid to the southwest the ever changing temperature came as a surprise. While the dead of winter, especially in Faerghus, held bitter frosts and freezing winds, the summers in central Fódlan could get downright balmy. And in the spring months, one could experience every temperature in a single day.

It was on such a too-hot spring day which found Lyric organising the shelves of the infirmary. He didn't distrust Professor Manuela's skills as a physician. She'd proven herself more than capable – enough so for him to begin apprenticing under her – too many times in the few weeks he'd known her. But he did distrust her sorting method of "organised chaos" and decided to use the opportunity to properly acquaint himself with an actual doctor's set-up. While the open area of the room appeared near spotless, smatterings of papers on the table or desk aside, the shelves and drawers lining the wall were another matter completely. Closed, no one could see the waiting avalanche of equipment and medicines. There weren't as many, or as complex, tools and machines as in Professor Hanneman's office, but as someone used to nothing more complex than a sword belt being used for a tourniquet being available on most days, the variety left him a bit lost.

Wooden boxes, the sort that looked to be pilfered from the kitchens for storing food, sat on some upper shelves, too tall for him to reach without a chair and too heavy or large for him to lift one-handed. Even without knowing their contents, he had enough to sort through in the books and files which he could get to for the moment.

He had opened the window in the early morning and left the door open, trying to coax cool air in on the breeze. But the air stood stagnant and still and no breeze strong enough to even lift the corner of a single loose paper came anywhere near the entirety of the monastery. He cast a glance toward the empty bed, then the one occupied by Sylvain Jose Gautier.

While not life-threatening, the redhead’s injuries were the sort best treated while under sedation. The dose from the early morning session hadn’t worn off yet and despite himself, Lyric dreaded the eventuality that it would.

Not ill-meaning, Lyric knew, Sylvain was extremely likely to make _comments_ as he always did to anything with a human face. His shirt was mostly undone and perhaps a bit too thin, but long enough to get away with under-cloths in place of trousers. He sat on the windowsill, papers spread out on the desk to one side of him and medicinal herbs on the floor on the other. It was far too hot to bind, and while he didn’t think Sylvain could possibly mistake him for Professor Manuela, he also knew that Sylvain was an idiot who refused to wear glasses despite, if any of the stories Ingrid told were true, _desperately_ needing them.

It wasn’t _awful_ , being hit on once in a while. It happened so rarely in the past, their line of work being a rather large obstacle in that regard. Flirting could only go so far when one was raining spells from across the battlefield after all. What made Sylvain’s flirting upon meeting Lyric and Lore so insufferable had been watching him walk away from a crying girl moments before turning that award-winning smile on them as though they hadn’t seen the whole thing and stating that meeting them right there must mean he was the luckiest guy in the world.

“You may not like what you find,” Lyric had said.

“Oh, _that’s_ never gonna happen, my dude.”

Sylvain didn’t stir, barely even made a sound in his sleep. Lyric turned back to the papers and the mostly worn off labels on vials. The work of figuring out the contents and re-labeling was easy enough, if tedious, but his hair was already starting to stick to the back of his neck.

“Pardon my interruption.” He didn’t even hear anyone approach.

His head snapped up. “Oh,” was all that managed to fall from his mouth. The figure before him was tall, made all the more apparent in the way he stood so rigid, and broad, with his uniform buttoned the entire way up his neck despite the weather and, _oh Goddess,_ Lyric thought suddenly, _I’m wearing almost nothing._

The newcomer tilted his head and a white eyebrow twitched as it threatened to raise quizzically. “The door was open. I brought these for Sylvain.” He raised his hands from his sides to hold out a stack of papers and books. “His Highness collected the work from the lectures he’s missed.”

“Oh,” Lyric said again. “How kind.”

The man’s expression softened considerably, and he stopped attempting to avert his gaze long enough to see Lyric smile. He nodded. “Yes. He is. He also suggested I might be of assistance to you.”

“I couldn’t ask that of you, I’ve just torn this place apart to re-organise.” He had met all the students and house leaders alongside Lore when they’d arrived, but he had yet to memorise everyone’s name and house and found himself rapidly trying to recall exactly who ‘His Highness’ referred to. Blue lions, Faerghus, Blaiddyd. Blonde boy, what was his name again? He did his best to not let on that he’d forgotten the given name of a future ruler of Fódlan.

“I have time.” The man stepped so lightly despite his size as he moved to place the books on the stand by Sylvain’s bed. “And His Highness was insistent we do something to thank you. Sylvain can be. Tiring.”

Lyric barely managed to stifle a laugh. “That’s fair. I suppose all I need is help with is getting down the supplies on the upper shelves.”

“Then you’ll also need help putting them back where they belong.” He said it like a fact. Like he was definitely going to be the one to do the task, not out of resignation but duty. Or desire. To help. To help _Lyric_.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that. I’ve no idea how long all this might take. And tracking you down later to drag you away from something else – or worse making you sit here and wait – I couldn’t.”

But he was already heading for the shelves. “I did say I have time. Most of the professors and students are out on a mission. I stayed here with His Highness.”

“Ah.” Lyric ran through all those who’d passed through the infirmary recently, wondering if the prince stayed behind due to an injury or illness. Most of the injuries the students had dealt with so far had been simple. Accidents from training rather than anything life threatening which the occasional mission to eradicate thieves would entail. Even with the mandatory combat training many of the students had even before enrolling in the Academy, he knew most of them had never seen a real fight, and throwing them into such dangerous missions sat strange and heavy in his stomach. “Is he alright?”

“Yes, he’s fine.” The corners of the man’s lips twitched upward. “He was worried about Sylvain.”

Lyric hummed in relief. Both in that there were no more injuries to worry about and that the prince cared for his people.

One by one the boxes and other various loose supplies made their way to the desk and floor. Lyric tried to focus on his previous work but couldn’t help glancing up every so often. The fleeting thought of the man leaving wordlessly after finishing crossed his mind.

Goddess, why was he _worrying_ about something so simple?

The man stepped back from the cabinets and gave a final look up at the empty upper shelves. Light illuminated his profile, along the sharp slope of his nose and the furrow of his brow and the hard edges of his cheekbones, glowing golden against the deep tan of his skin. It wasn’t until his startlingly green eyes flicked from the shelves to where he sat did Lyric realise he’d been staring.

“Was there a problem?” The question sounded too gentle. Too much like resignation.

Lyric tilted his head, hoping his hair and the angle of light from the window could hide the heat he felt spreading across his face. “It occurred to me that we haven’t been properly introduced, is all.” In a desperate bid to mask his embarrassment, he stood straight and set the papers he held aside. He offered his hand. “I’m Lyric. Lyric Eisner.”

The man glanced at Lyric’s hand and then back up. His jaw twitched as though he wanted to say something before deciding against it. Rather than returning the handshake he folded his arms in front of and behind his waist the way people from the Kingdom tended to when they bowed and did so. “My name is Dedue Molinaro.”

Very much despite himself, Lyric beamed. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Dedue. And thank you. For helping.”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

“Then accept my thanks for now, until you can give my regards to the prince.”

Dedue looked down, as though suddenly very interested in the contents of the box nearest to him. “Very well.”

“I really would like to thank you, though.” Lyric shuffled through the files on the desk and placed them in the drawer. He set the vials which still needed new labels into one cabinet and the newly labeled vials in the one beside it. “I haven’t gotten a chance to meet many of the students.”

“I’m afraid I make for poor company.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” The heat, he decided later, must have been making him bold. He continued clearing the desk and the space around it. “This one can go back up,” he said, tapping the edge of one crate after emptying it of its previous contents and replacing them with the files of students and staff no longer at the monastery.

Dedue didn’t make any rebuttal about not knowing him well enough to have authority over whether or not he made decent companionship. But Lyric noticed he’d stopped trying so overtly to avert his eyes and Lyric wondered – hoped? – that he’d picked up on how Lyric allowed himself to relax, as he’d been when alone. He hoisted the crate back into its place with ease.

A part of Lyric didn’t like how easy it would be to see everything about all the students. While perhaps not all of their secrets could be hidden away in those sheets, a great deal more than what just was written down could be inferred by a discerning eye. He’d never had access to that amount of information on anyone before, barring his sister and maybe his father when his lips had been sufficiently loosened from drinking, and even being near it felt overwhelming. But he could at least keep the secrets of those he might never see far away. Those around him however, he could understand the need for keeping notes on.

One man in Jeralt’s mercenary company said that valerian root tea gave him horrifically vivid dreams while another complained it left him feeling less like he was asleep and more like he was blind and paralysed for six hours. Even with as few resources as he usually had, Lyric learned quickly that everything affected everyone different. Having those differences written down cut out a lot of trial and error. And potentially saved lives.

Two more boxes of old files went up out of his reach. He cleared a place in the cabinets directly behind the desk for the files of the current staff and students, organising students by house and staff by whether they worked for the Academy or for the monastery itself.

Having help made the work faster. Dedue didn’t try to strike up conversation, and Lyric was too focused to do so.

“I should go.”

Lyric looked up from the bundle of dried leaves he’d been wrangling into a drawer. He glanced around and realised that, indeed, there were no more boxes and nothing else so heavy or large he couldn’t lift on his own.

“You don’t have to,” he said before he even thought to stop himself. “I’ve rather enjoyed having company.”

Dedue shook his head. For the first time in a while he turned away from Lyric’s gaze. “You shouldn’t say that. There would be rumors if anyone heard.”

“Rumors of what? That I had help doing my job?”

His hands curled into tight fists. His shoulders tensed. “That. You had help from _me_. They won’t be kind to you if-“

Off to their side, on the other end of the room, Sylvain groaned and rolled over to his side as he started to awaken.

Lyric was about to ask who this horrifying ‘They’ was and why he should care what They thought when Dedue continued before he could even open his mouth. “Please.” He bowed again, rigid composure regained. “I apologise for being so forward. Have a good day.” And before Lyric could rebuke, he’d turned and rushed out.

Lyric turned to Sylvain, glad for a distraction. For something to keep him tethered to the room instead of chasing after a near stranger for answers to questions he hadn’t even asked. “Morning, sunshine.”

Sylvain stretched and groaned again. “That was really hard to listen to, you know.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to eavesdrop?”

“Sure. But it’s hard not to while in the same room as someone. And when it’s something that _delightfully_ awkward.”

“Perhaps reminding you that I could knock you out again will make listening in on my future conversations that much harder.”

His threat was empty, and judging by the easy grin spread across Sylvain’s face the redhead knew it. Even so he gave the formerly broken bone in Sylvain’s arm harsher of a prod than he needed to when checking it, just to prove his point.

“All I’m saying –“ he cut off to wince dramatically “- is that I don’t think I’ve ever seen Dedue _flustered_. You really are some kind of miracle worker.”

“Oh. Look at that. Your arm was set wrong and we’ll have to re-break it to set it correctly.”

“Or maybe it’s the outfit. Man, you’d be –“

“I am going to re break your arm,” Lyric cut him off, his tone the dangerously calm and even sort which prefaced a joke becoming a threat. He held Sylvain’s wrist just a tad tighter than necessary. “If you continue to speak.”

Sylvain’s grin only broke into a laugh as a reply. But he held up his free arm as best he could and shrugged. “Okay, sorry! You both could have chosen way, _way_ worse, my final opinion on the matter. I promise.”

Lyric’s eyebrow twitched upward and Sylvain flinched.

“I did promise.”

“If I clear you, will you take your books and just _go_? And not cause trouble for anyone?”

“Causing trouble is just what I do. But I won’t be causing any trouble in here anymore for now, if that’s what you’d like to hear.”

Lyric wanted to groan, but he settled for a sharp exhale through his nose. “As long as you’ve learned why it’s a bad idea to block a shield bash with your bare arm I’ll call it a win. Go easy with training for a couple of days, but you should be ready to get back into missions by the time the classes come back from their current job.”

With Sylvain gone, the room was peaceful and quiet once more. Lyric worked in uninterrupted silence. The wretched air from the morning gave way to dark storm clouds by mid-afternoon, humid stagnancy finally being blown away. Some would complain about storms, call them sudden and out of nowhere, but this one at least felt like breaking tension.

Lyric closed the windows before the downpour began.


	2. The Revive Saga: Heal

Patterns light the air around his outstretched arm. Lyric closes his eyes, focuses, forces. He channels energy from himself to the still form beneath his hand. Ferdinand von Aegir lays motionless, his breastplate crushed and cracked from the blow of a warhammer. The last of the bandits their class had been tasked to deal with is further off, and somehow, worse off. If the Seraphim didn't kill him, the drop did. Ferdinand was lucky not to be closer to the edge himself. The ground is all rocks and outcroppings and hidden cliffs.

The bandits are the scattered remnants of Kostas' gang. Some had fled back to their homes, to waiting families and loves and work, with tales of how thievery was not such a good alternative to other means of getting by. Others had no such luck, or didn't care for it, or reveled in the cruelty, and they fled to the outskirts to continue in their ways. It hadn't been one clean and clear battle, but several chases and ambushes and skirmishes.

The students are scattered and unused to such conditions. Lyric stretches his hand into the air to signal where he is and calls that he's uninjured but helping another. He hears similar calls from various distances behind him and the stomping of running feet to convene and determine who is still missing.

Any other time, he would have turned around. He would have watched Lore direct the students, taking charge and teaching all at once like she'd been born for this role.

But Lyric refuses to allow this to be Ferdie's end. None of the others have noticed yet and the terrain hides all it needs to, they will see him assisting someone, but not the blood which runs all down Ferdinand's nose and mouth and stains the ground beneath him. And they have other injuries to deal with. They know he is the most experienced of those present, that he will call for help if needed and would ask to be left alone otherwise.

It should not be possible. Healing the dead is like throwing a ball at a wall. The energy will bounce back, the spell will fail, the ball will return to the thrower.

His fingers tremble, but he manages to undo the front of the breastplate and though it creaks and cracks and threatens to fall further apart, he tears it away from the sunken chest it failed to protect.

A round of Recover, spinning, spiraling, circling around as it moves ribs back into place. Another, alongside it, he knows he does not have time for one spell after another, mending flesh and muscle. A burning, a spark, something to restart. Warp? Thunder? Aura? He calls forth every memory he has of healing Lore. From scrapes and bruises as children playing together to him mending her fractured femur after a fall from Jeralt's horse. The energy sings within him, burning in his very blood. When his arm was hewn off, he should have bled out. But he hadn't. He'd healed it then and there screaming through clamped jaw. His hand clenches to a fist and all he knows is he sends energy, just as he had back then.

It bursts through the padded shirt, through the undershirt, through the skin. It scorches cotton but leaves flesh untouched. Lyric doesn't know how he manages, doesn't know the symbols floating around his hand.

The others will worry soon.

Ferdinand's chest expands. He inhales loudly and coughs out the blood still within his lungs.

Lyric topples over.

The others notice then.

Ariadne rushes to them, Caspar and Marianne right on her heels.

Hands and grass slick with blood and sweat, Ferdinand tries to find purchase on the ground to pull himself into a sitting position. When Marianne can tell he's mostly uninjured she allows Caspar to help him. She presses her hand to his chest, to the hole in his gambeson over his heart, and begins a Heal spell.

Ari runs her hands over Lyric's limbs and down his spine before moving him. He comes to as she mirrors Marianne's gesture, though similarly she finds no obvious wounds.

"Are you both alright?" She stops the spell short when Lyric waves his hand to signal he wants to be upright.

Ferdinand is still catching his breath. He nods.

Lyric blinks hard against the spinning world. "M'fine."

"I don't know what exactly happened during that skirmish." Ferdie rubs the side of his head. His brows knit upward as he feels blood and cannot discern a source. "But it seems you saved my life, Lyric. Thank you."

Lyric doesn't feel the blood on his own face until Ari starts swiping it away with the cuff of her sleeve. She doesn't let go of his shoulder. He tries to come up with a plausible reason for them both ending up bloodied but alive. "I didn't take as much of that hit as you did. And if it hadn't been for me not paying attention in the first place, you wouldn't have had to take any of it."

"You were healing our allies. It is my duty to protect you."

"Not by getting the crud beat outta ya," Caspar says before Lyric can respond.

"He's right." Marianne finishes the Heal and draws her hands close to her chest. She lowers her eyes to the ground. "You should be more careful."

"Yes. Yes, of course, you're both absolutely right."

Caspar pulls one of Ferdie's arms across his shoulders and they move to stand. Lyric almost makes a protest, but despite his lank and lack of height, Caspar carries the burden with ease, and Ferdie doesn't need as much help as someone recently crushed by a warhammer rightfully should. He buries his face in his hand and shakes his head as they start walking toward the rest of the group. Caspar makes a joke they can't hear, and Ferdie laughs. He's dizzy, they conclude and don't rule out a concussion, but otherwise he's fine.

Ariadne turns back to Lyric as he continues staring after the pair. They rejoin the others and Lyric scans the crowd for Lore, relieved she’s caught up in her own duties – and in Claude von Riegan, who has already become a near permanent fixture at her side – and hasn’t noticed him not yet on his feet.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah." He smiles at Ari first, and then toward Marianne, still with her head down but her eyes looking up at him through the blue of her fringe. "I'm fine, I promise. Just a little worn out from the battle."

-

Sylvain gets hurt more than any other student. Professor Manuela jokes he’s as much her assistant as Lyric is for all the time he spends in the infirmary. But her tone isn’t light when she says it and the furrow of her brow suggests worry rather than actual irritation.

The first couple of weeks, Lyric doesn’t mind so much. Dedue brings the work from the lectures he’s missed, but his visits are always short and carry a tenseness to them which Lyric can’t help but feel responsible for.

He thanks him and smiles and they try not to look at each other though neither can figure out why.

He wishes he was relieved when someone else starts bringing Sylvain’s work and cuts down dramatically on his time to see Dedue and try to come up with a reason for him to stay.

Ariadne Cerys Heddwyn belongs to the Golden Deer house. She brings Sylvain’s work to him in Dedue’s stead. She sits with him and does her work alongside him and Lyric doesn’t let his disappointment show the first time she appears.

Ari brings out actual, honest smiles in Sylvain, along with a bewilderment which Lyric _could_ rag on for revenge if he ever so chose to. But with Ari around Sylvain is all breathy laughs and dimples and faint freckles and such simplicity makes him far more handsome than all his winking and brooding.

Lyric would tease if not for Ari being genuinely nice. Despite being a cousin to the Gloucester family he sees little resemblance in her and Lorenz. Ari is all bubbly, round of face and willing to laugh and carefree in a way nobility often refuses to allow for their children to be. If he hadn’t been told of their relation or seen for himself the way she and Lorenz playfully push each other and giggle whenever they tease one another and think no one else is watching, he never would have expected them to be related.

It isn’t her fault she and Sylvain became friends. It isn’t her fault she has an aptitude for magic and uses the excuse to stay and help Sylvain study.

Lyric couldn’t dislike her even if he wanted to.

Every so often one of the other Blue Lions tails along with Ari and the three of them study together, piled onto the bed and halfway in each other’s laps. Their scowling black-haired friend pretends to be serious while the blonde and redhead laugh at some outdated formulae the book is trying to teach. With Ari around, Sylvain stops playing stupid. He still follows her guidance, especially in regards to Faith-based casting, but he can keep up with her Reason studies to a degree which Lyric already is not surprised by.

Their dark-haired friend catches him coming back from the training grounds one day.

He scoffs in that way of his and fixes his honey-gold glare onto Lyric’s eyes. He approaches in the way a cat might approach already wounded prey, his steps light and silent. “Spar with me sometime.”

“Felix…” but Ari’s voice holds more resignation than it does annoyance. “Don’t be rude.”

“Oh, no. He’s not being rude at all.” Lyric dabs the sweat rag draping over his shoulders to his face as he makes his way to the tiny water spigot and basin. The only places within the monastery with access to water in such a way are the infirmary and the kitchens. Magic or the Goddess’ protection or Rhea’s wrath keeps water collected from the roofs clean and having it readily available in two of the places which need and use it the most is yet another boon Lyric finds himself astounded by. He bowls his hand to take a sip and runs the remaining water across the back of his neck. “I’m just not very good with a sword. So I don’t know why you would want to spar with me. Unless you want to practice against white magic?”

“Don’t be coy.” Felix places a hand on his hip. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. His hair is down and the shadow it cuts makes his face look even paler than usual. “I saw you on the training grounds a few days ago. You fight better with one hand than most of the knights can manage with both.”

Lyric is used to people going out of their way to _not_ mention his missing arm. Part of him wishes others shared Felix’s uncaring bluntness, but hearing the praise phrased in such a way still stings a bit. A few years ago he might have been far more willing to take the bait, to rise to the obvious challenge. But a few years ago he was still sore about not being able to wield a bow anymore and would have relished the opportunity to prove he was still capable.

He doesn’t need to prove anything anymore. He doesn’t want to _have_ to.

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” he says carefully.

Felix tosses his head back as he laughs, loud and short. “I hope that confidence stays with you on the battlefield. You and your sister make for intriguing adversaries. I look forward to besting you _both_.”

“Felix,” Ari says again, her voice quiet and calm. “We have to study.”

Sylvain hides a laugh by turning away.

Felix listens this time, but speaks over his shoulder as he stalks back to the bed. “Meet me on the training grounds tomorrow. Before sunset.”

-

Dedue still brings the work of the other Blue Lions students. One day while Hilda is complaining of a sprained wrist preventing her from doing her chores, he knocks on the door. For the first time in what feels like months.

Lyric is aware of how pathetic he feels thinking that way.

“Claude asked me to bring these,” Dedue says simply. He holds out a book and a handful of neatly stacked papers.

“Oh. Thank you.” He wants to ask him to come in. To stay for a while and have tea. _As thanks_ , he asserts to himself. For doing so much for everyone else.

He knows the answer will be no, but the request comes anyway. “I was about to make tea. If you would like to stay for a bit.”

Doubtless, Dedue is tall enough to see over Lyric’s head and ascertain that he was absolutely _not_ about to make tea. The table is a mess of soil and seeds and seedlings and the tiny sorts of planters that hang from windows. If he notices, he doesn’t mention it. “I have to see to His Highness. Perhaps another time.”

It isn’t outright refusal. Something in that fact makes Lyric’s stomach do flips.

He turns back into the room, to where Professor Manuela and Hilda are painting one another's nails. Neither of them speaks, but Hilda's grin is cracked ear to ear and her twin ponytails are bouncing in excitement along with her. Manuela manages to hide her gaze behind the fur of her shawl and pretends to chastise Hilda for moving so much.

"Your wrist appears to have made a miraculously quick recovery," he remarks as he sets the book on the table.

She pouts, pursing her lips in a way that makes her lip gloss shimmer. "I dunno, I should probably stay here one more day to be sure. Maybe Claude will send someone up for _me_ next time."

Lyric's ensuing exhale is sharp and sudden. He hadn't considered that Hilda wasn't a student of the Blue Lions, even at Dedue mentioning Claude being the one to send him. With the realisation crashing down, he's seized with a sudden panic.

It isn't just that he distrusts Claude, though he does. He doesn't like how his smiles are never real and how he looks at people with the scrutinizing glare of someone looking for people to use. His intentions are secret and his personality is false and he's always exactly where he needs to be. But the worst thing about Claude is that he is aware of how handsome he is. The second worst thing is that _Lore_ is aware of how handsome he is.

Claude makes no secrets of being up to something. But what that something _is_ , is where the mystery lies. And what it has to do with _Lore_ is where Lyric's concern lies.

"If you're well enough to paint nails, you're well enough to do your chores."

Manuela sighs and stretches as she stands. "I'm afraid he's right, you know." She inspects her own nails, a dual shade of pink and gold, with a pleased grin. "By the work you did here I'd say your wrist has more than recovered."

“All thanks to you, Professor Manuela!” Hilda giggles. She splays her hands out against the light from the windows. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing the both of you around soon!”

Lyric makes no comment as she bounds out of the room, cackling like she has a secret.

With a sigh, he goes back to work at the table.

-

In just a few short weeks, Lyric has a small medicinal garden growing from the windows of the infirmary. The few shoots which have sprouted are tiny and delicate and he wonders if they'll even be mature by summer and autumn like the books say they should be. Those which had started out as seedlings have grown quite a bit as far as tiny herbs and flowers go. Some of them have buds. A few look sickly.

Lyric is alone in the infirmary, which is an increasingly rare occurrence even when no one occupies a bed. Ashe spends evenings there with him, when the cathedral is too loud and his thoughts are too chaotic and he needs to do something with his hands so his mind doesn't spin itself in circles. He helps Lyric as much as he can, showing him how to keep the soil properly drained and which plants prefer more sunlight, and Lyric lets him just sit and mourn and pours him hibiscus and lavender tea and doesn't make him talk if he doesn't feel ready to. The note Catherine found on Lonato Gaspard has the entire monastery on alert. Lyric makes sure Ashe has somewhere he can go where he isn't reminded of plots and conspiracies and hidden agendas.

Even Lore is fretting. She spends her free days running around the monastery for clues to some scavenger hunt or another Claude von Riegan has set her on. While he definitely agrees that the note's origins are suspicious, coming to a similar conclusion as Claude puts a bad taste in his mouth.

Of course, he also has his own unrelated conspiracies to think about. Jeralt had told Lyric and Lore that he was to be assisting the current Knight Captain, who was getting too old for the job. But over the two months they've been at the monastery, no one has spoken of the man. He has no name, no face. Jeralt is away more than he isn't and so finding a moment to ask him if he finds it suspicious is difficult.

Rhea likes to watch over Jeralt's shoulders a little too much when he is around.

Lyric shakes his head against the thoughts. He has cleaning to do. He promised Manuela she could take the night off for her date and he would take care of the infirmary. Tending his garden has already taken more time out of his days than he anticipated. Though not all of the plants need to be watered and seen to every day, he records their growth and any changes in shape and color and how much he waters and feeds each. It is maybe more effort than he needs to put into the task, but he enjoys it, and enjoys watching the plants even though he admits it sounds silly when said aloud.

He doesn't realise how late it is until the mosaic of the window catches the light of the setting sun and casts the room with a melody of dusty gold.

He stows the broom for the time being and wipes the table down. If he can just finish the dusting before he crashes into one of the open beds, he can wake up early tomorrow and make breakfast before the kitchen gets too busy.

A knock at the door interrupts his planning. His heart skips a beat.

That knock is familiar.

He does his best not to rush. Not to seem eager for another empty exchange. The fact that there are no students to deliver homework for isn't even in his mind.

"Good evening."

"It is." Dedue nods toward the tray he's holding. "His Highness noticed you weren't in the dining hall tonight. He suggested bringing you something."

Lyric looks him in the eye. "Oh? How kind of him." He holds the door open and steps aside as an invitation in.

The corners of Dedue's mouth twitch upward. "Yes. He is." He sets the tray on the table and turns to face the door before Lyric works up the courage to speak again. "Please, enjoy."

It is only Lyric's place at the threshold of the door which prevents him from making his exit as swift as all his others. His very purposeful, slow steps forward give just enough time for Lyric to come up with an excuse for him to stay, and time to draw up the bravery to speak it. "Will you join me? Eating alone is. Well, lonely."

"I only brought enough for one."

"We could share it. I don't eat much." Lyric takes a step forward to meet him. He could easily slip past and out the door if he really wanted to. It remains wide open.

"I have already eaten. This was meant for you."

"Allow me to make tea for you then. As thanks."

A small smile pulls one side of Lyric's mouth upward as he speaks. Their gazes meet for the first time in a long time and Dedue's eyebrows are furrowed up in what is either worry or surprise. The moments pass by painfully slow. Lyric doesn't want to beg, doesn't want to coerce or force. He just stares up and waits for Dedue's answer.

Dedue drops his gaze as he nods, but he doesn't manage to hide the gentle smile before Lyric notices it. "Very well."

"Thank you." It wasn't meant to come out so breathy, but Lyric sighs in relief as he says it.

In one of the desk drawers is a tiny pouch gifted to him extremely unceremoniously one day by Prince Dimitri. Within are two small silk bags with leaves and spices perfectly measured for two cups of ginger tea. So innocuous of a gift, so sudden. He felt less like he'd been given something for himself and more like he was simply holding onto something until the right time. Lyric doesn't recall speaking to Dimitri about his preferences when it comes to tea. And ginger is a very peculiar taste to assume one likes.

Though he does suppose he is doing that now. Even if he is not without reason. Is it a risk? Perhaps. Is it calculated? Maybe so.

The tea set Manuela keeps in the infirmary has alongside it a flat, circular stone which activates and heats on top when a fire spell is used on it. Lyric hadn't gotten to use one before coming to the monastery though he'd seen them occasionally. If they have a proper name, he has never heard it, and had taken to calling them tea stones when he was younger. Their portability makes them convenient but their need for a magic user to be of any use other than as a blunt weapon makes them somewhat rare.

While Lyric prepares the water and the tea, Dedue uncovers the dish on the table. The sharp, sweet aroma of onions fills the room in moments. Still careful to keep an eye on the tea, Lyric draws near to revel in the scent. Sage and salt and a medley of other seasonings drift up from the bowl.

"May I?" Lyric tries not to reach for the spoon before even getting an answer.

Dedue takes a step back and barely holds in a soft laugh. "No need to ask, it's yours."

The first taste finds him a tiny, tender piece of chicken. It melts so seamlessly into the salty-sweet broth and he holds the flavor in his mouth for a moment, inhaling deep before swallowing. "Sweet Goddess, that's divine."

And there's that small smile again. That quick flick of the eyes to a far corner of the room before settling back onto Lyric. "Thank you."

With the way kitchen duty is done, all the students taking turns assisting, everyone gets a chance to show how great or disastrous their exploits making food can be. Lyric knows he's tasted Dedue's cooking before, but something about this feel different. Even if it wasn't made special, if it was just leftovers from the rest of the monastery's mealtime. The fact that someone thought to withhold a bowl for him is, simply, nice. He doesn't ask which it is, doesn't want to pry. Taking a single, tiny bite however, makes his stomach realise that he is very, very hungry.

"No, thank _you_ ," he says, turning back to prepare the tea. "You didn't have to go through all this trouble. Please, sit. You're a guest, after all."

"A strange way for the infirmary to receive guests," Dedue says, though he obliges.

"But never unwelcome."

When he sets the mug down, the bitter spice of ginger snaking through the air, Dedue's facade of neutrality fades for a brief moment, his eyes widen and his brow furrows. Lyric fears that he's made a mistake. He hides his own wide-eyed tight-jawed expression by turning away to set the teapot back on the tea stone.

"Ginger tea is unusual to come by here. It isn't very popular." Dedue lifts the mug delicately and tips it just enough for the tea to touch his lip. "And it happens to be my favorite."

Lyric hides his relieved sputtering with a shrug and a quick laugh as he slips into his own seat. "I just happened to have it."

The table isn't tiny. It can comfortably fit two more people. But Lyric can't help feeling so close. So domestic. So at ease. He sips at the stew and then at his tea. The contrasting flavors linger on his tongue more pleasantly than might have expected. Ginger does make for a good palette cleanser, he supposes. When he takes a moment to slow down, after he's eaten his hunger away and seeks enjoyment of the meal and the company it brings more, he follows Dedue's gaze to the windows, to his assortment of plants.

Lyric tries to read his expression, but can find neither judgement nor approval in the way Dedue seems to be appraising every leaf and stalk from where he sits. He brings a hand to rest on his chin and finally speaks, very gently. "May I make a suggestion?"

Lyric doesn't mean to bring his mug down with such force, but it's all he can do to hide how off guard the question made him. "Of course. I need all the help I can get."

"Those flowers there, in the square red pot would do well with more space. They grow rather large quickly."

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you. I know I'll have to transplant some of them soon anyway so I'll try to find a larger pot for that one in the meanwhile."

"Might I also ask why you've chosen to grow them in here? Is the greenhouse short on space?"

"Oh, um." Lyric pushes the remnants of stew around in his bowl, suddenly feeling very nervous about this new hobby of his. "It's nothing so serious as that. Honestly, it's rather silly. Travelling around often as we did, finding fresh ingredients for medicines and cooking was sometimes difficult. We'd meet herbalists with whole gardens right outside their homes they could gather whatever they needed from and I guess I just got it in my head that I could try something similar here."

Dedue hums thoughtfully. He looks down into his tea and the soft smile which alights on his face in that moment of silence nearly stops Lyric's heart. If he could see nothing but that smile for the rest of his days, he could consider his life fulfilled.

"I told you it's silly," Lyric finally says to break the silence. "The greenhouse is perfectly serviceable and I've scavenged half the useful plants to slowly kill them on my own time."

"It isn't. And you are not killing them." There is a sudden sharpness to Dedue's voice which is almost startling. "You are learning. If you dream of having a garden, this is a step closer to that goal."

Lyric can't help but breath out a laugh. He smiles despite himself. "You make it sound so grand. All I want is enough to help heal anyone who comes my way. And to be able to season more stews like this one."

"Someday. You will."

He sighs and takes a sip of his tea. "Maybe someday I'll be settled down in one place long enough to grow my own willow tree."

"Perhaps."

He can't quite read the expression in Dedue's voice. So soft, so warm. He doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to risk seeing that mask of indifference in place again. But he does. And Dedue is watching just over Lyric's shoulder, out past his sage and vervain, out the window to somewhere far away. Even when he speaks again, he is still somewhere else, but Lyric feels as though the journey wouldn't be so hard to join him on now. He turns around in his seat and watches a pair of birds streak by.

"It would take quite some time."

"It would. But it would be worth it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We had comfrey in our garden when I was young and I recently learned it's been made illegal because studies show it causes cancer.


End file.
